


The Most Powerful Witch

by Vaiire



Category: Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery (Video Game)
Genre: Melodrama, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21719608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaiire/pseuds/Vaiire
Summary: A glimpse through those violet eyes on the night her life was irrevocably destroyed and the moments that followed.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

Merula sat curled up, knees to the side, on her cushioned armchair, reading. Always reading, always learning. The hearth fire cackled beside her, enveloping her left half with a little-bit-too-much-but-still-lovely kind of warmth. Violet eyes swam across the page, fully engrossed in the contents of her parent's old books. Knowledge was power, after all.

Her mother sat across from her, wand in hand, eyes never leaving the Dark Mark. Bags had grown under her eyes, made all the more apparent by frayed hair and a pale complexion. A shattered reflection of the woman she used to be.

They had moved quite a number of times over the last two years. It was always a bother. Pack up, move here, barely settle, pack up again, move again. Again-and-again-and-again-and-again. It was isolating. Infuriating. Why couldn't they just pick a place and stay there? Any attempt at figuring out why was met with aversion.

But Merula wasn't stupid. Even at her age – ten and a half, so close to her letter! – she put two-and-two together:

Aurors.

It was always Aurors. 

It had been Aurors in Canterbury. Aurors in Salisbury. Aurors in Chichester! Every time they'd found somewhere to call home, the Ministry's Aurors would get too close and they'd have to leave. It was all so tiresome. No wonder her mother was always on edge, constantly staring blankly at the faded tattoo on the underside of her forearm as if it would change.

The death of the Dark Lord – Voldemort, whatever… who even cares about a name? – changed her mother and father. Long gone were the days of snowflake making and broomstick flying. She missed those days.

A soundless curse escaped Merula's lips as she finally realized she'd been reading the same sentence over-and-over while lost in her train of thought. The heat prickled her skin as she changed positions. Knowledge is power and power is everything. With power, she'd never have to worry about the Aurors ever again.

BAM!

Both Merula and her mother snapped to attention, their eyes and bodies – and a faintly green-glowing wand – squared at the front door. There stood the bloody and breathless visage of the Snyde patriarch. His paleness matched that of his wife's now as his body slumped hard against the soft-white of the door, smearing it with a hand-print of deep crimson.

“They're here,” he managed to expel.

Reality crashed over the ten-and-a-half year-old. Her teeth clenched and her fists balled, her parent's book tumbling out of her lap. Again. Again, again, again, again, again. Again? Her anger coalesced amidst a melting pot of underdeveloped thoughts and feelings. Grief, fear, anxiety, sadness, confusion– a whirlwind that threatened to knock her off her feet.

“Merula!” 

It was her mother.

The little witch blinked. Everything was happening so quickly. Why? Why must the world move so quickly?

“Merula, come. We must go.”

Listen to her, Merula. Get up! Move! The girl got up without a word and took her mother's hand. They strode towards the back door to find her father already there with one hand holding it open, his wild, bloodshot eyes canvassing the room behind them, wand at the ready. Could never be too careful with Aurors.

Another pang of anxiety twisted Merula's gut. They'd evaded the Ministry so many times before, but never like this: never with conflict… always just one step ahead of them. This was different. Uncertain. Her mother's hand squeezed tightly now, far more than any time before. This was different. Wrong. Her father's voice pierced the night– loud but muffled; a shout heard, but unintelligible. This was different. 

This was it.

A wave of hot air billowed from behind the Snyde family as a force blasted Merula and her mother to the ground. Cindering splinters and shards of the front door cascaded across the living room. A foul ringing dulled Merula's senses. Her parent's words became muted, the world around her dulled. Powerless… this is powerlessness. It strangled her; voice straining, crying… pleading. Violet eyes twisted, desperately searching for confirmation. Every second stretched into infinity and Merula could do nothing but watch through the smoke and the sparks and the screams. 

Powerless. 

Tendrils of magic flashed overhead, illuminating the floor green-to-red-to-yellow-to-blue-- a rainbow of destruction. Merula crawled – crawled! How utterly useless – out into the open. Was the room always so small? She peered up at her parents slinging spells and chucking curses. With the world as slow as it was, Merula could make out the spittle and the dust and the smoke… and it terrified her.

No. No, no, no. No! NO! Mum, dad… stop! Stop fighting! They're just going to kill you.

Kill.

It was so… easy.

Merula simply stared into oblivion as the vivid, emerald bolt soared across the room towards the front door. It carried intent, she noted. Intent to destroy; to obliterate. To kill. And it did so with unabashed ease. A shroud in the doorway – shroud? Auror; enemy – slumped down like one of those silly Muggle dolls tossed to the side by a bored child. Good riddance.

Then sound returned to the Snydeling, and she could hear the wanton hatred emanating from the choke point that was her front door. The door itself had been blown off its hinges and several holes and impact craters littered the walls surrounding it. The skirmish, though small, was damaging, and Merula could see her father beginning to slow. From the way he moved and breathed, her father was losing the war of attrition… and everybody in the Snyde Family knew it.

There was no time for tears.

The back door burst open for the flank. More shrouds – more Aurors – flooded in, wands up, spells precise. Merula's father, exasperated, fell first. The magical rope slithered around his arms, torso, waist, and finally his legs. He was already toppling over before her mother could even turn to face the new threat, eyes wild with fury. She met with a powerful, concussive force and flew, spinning, across the room, slumping into a heap on the carpet as more Aurors made to secure her.

Merula froze, her parent's screams blood-curdling and brimming with vitriol. Even now, in spite of it all, they praised their dead Dark Lord. But they were her parents… and had to do something. Move, Merula! 

Power. Control that power. She'd always been in control, her knowledge had forged that control over the years. Hardly any witches and wizards her age could do that, but she was special. The Most Powerful Witch. Now she had to throw it all away and lose control. Anger was power. Her untapped, unrestrained well of magic churned like a torrent. Yes… now this was what she sought. The house shook and all the Aurors paused, cautious. The debris of the previous battle – now the instruments of her fury – began to float with Merula as she rose to her feet. 

Kill.

It would be so… easy…

But there was nothing. The rage was there at the tip of her fingers, so close… so tantalizingly and painstakingly close, yet out of reach. Merula felt her body become instantaneously rigid – arms to side, knees together – and she collapsed to the ground just like her father had before her. She dared to scream and struggle, but both her voice box and her limbs remained locked in place. Not even the tears would come. She failed… her was power a pin-prick; a mere inconvenience to the Aurors. So professional. It was sickening. What kind of person specialized in destroying families? From her peripheral vision, Merula watched in silent horror as her parents were dragged away in shackles. She watched them struggle and kick and yell like wild animals and wished so desperately she could do the same. 

If only she could scream… from the bottom of her heart… at the top of her lungs. With all her soul.

Minutes stretched on into a seemingly endless oblivion-- a nightmare made real. The only things that kept the frozen, little witch company was her thoughts amidst the silence: the regret, the guilt, the pain, loneliness, sadness, despair, anxiety. It was all too much for her. The only way Merula could process it was to let it fester and coagulate into something she couldn't understand except for the fact that her parents were gone.

It's my fault. No, it's the Auror's fault!

The Dark Lor-- Voldemort's to blame. Mum and dad are to blame.

I was too weak. No, they were too weak!

The cycle of blame kept flowing at a fine churn, as though grinding wheat into flour. It hurt. Choked. Embittered. None of it made any sense to the ten-and-a-half-year-old, and yet… it somehow made total sense. 

Eventually, movement came back to Merula and she returned to her chair by the fire which had long ago turned to cinders. Chin tucked into knees, her eyes hovered from the sprawled book to where her mother sat, then to the front door – now a gaping maw for moonlight – and finally to where her parents faced bitter defeat. 

She was too tired now, and the tears wouldn't come.


	2. Chapter 2

Violet eyes snapped open with a sharp inhale and found the world had become tilted since last she saw it. Head nestled into the armchair of the single-seater sofa – her sanctuary – Merula sat up. Her body ached, stiff, cold and groggy. Was this how mum and dad had felt in the morning? Had?

Her sheepishness subsided into a slowly increasing sense of dread. The world, now corrected, was still. Totally still. Like a lake in the early morning just begging for a stone to upturn it.

Everything was off. Alien. Off? No. Everything was right, that's what was off. Merula hesitantly rose and surveyed her surroundings. No scorch marks, dust or debris. No splinter or chunks of wall. The house was clean; undamaged. Even the door now stood upright.

But that's…

“Muuuuuum…?” she called out. Nothing. Where could they be? Was last night all a bad dream? Curiosity replaced the dread.

Merula meandered to the front door and was unsure of what to make of it. She opened it and was greeted by her front garden as if nothing was amiss. The sun shone, the birds chirped, and the trees swayed in the wind. All was… well? Her eyes settled on the now faded stains of red that marred the otherwise pristine white door. Whoever cleaned it didn't account for just how obnoxious blood was to clean-- blood? That's right, dad… he was--

“--Close the door, would you?”

The little witch jumped, squeaked, and slammed it shut. The voice wasn't that of either parent. She turned, slowly, eyes wide with fear, heart beating furiously. The Aurors had come back to get her too.

“Don't slam it!”

Merula's Aunt – her mother's sister? It had been so long – stared daggers, hands on hips. She looked like her mother: they had the same nose. Merula had it too.

Merula gulped. “Where are my mum and dad?” she asked innocently, her heartbeat getting faster-and-faster. She already knew the answer now. It hadn't been a bad dream.

Her aunt responded with about as much tact as dragon, “Azkaban, where they belong.” She tossed the current issue of the Daily Prophet down at the girl's feet. It landed perfectly – magically – and unfurled to the correct page. An elaborate demonstration.

The headline read uniformly and, to Merula, soullessly. There were no names. Nothing to warrant that her parents had been anything other than another statistic. Simply: 'Auror killed in double Death Eater capture last night'. Merula felt her jaw clench, chest tighten and fists ball. This woman was just as bad as the rest. A coward. No wonder mum never bothered with her, she was another enemy waiting for them. Damn them. Damn her parents. Damn her aunt. Damn Voldemort! The whole lot! 

Whoever they were. Herself, maybe. Damn herself most of all.

“I suggest you pick up that dropped lip, deary,” her aunt said. A threat. Her parents had been strict, but they'd never threatened her. What kind of family member does that to another? Everything was moving so quickly again. Now she understood how mum and dad felt.

“Or else what?”

The slap came like lightning and lingered like thunder. Merula had no idea people could move so quickly. But she didn't topple. She was strong now, stronger than she'd ever been. She glared defiantly as the welt began to swell. This was nothing-- a pin-prick; an inconvenience. The little girl stood proud against the indomitable giant before her in the vain hopes that she'd become indomitable.

“I see you've got a bit of your mother's attitude in you. I always hated that about her--”

“--Don't you dare speak ill of my mother!”

Her aunt seemed positively bemused. The facts spoke for themselves. “In any case, child, you shan't speak back to me ever again. Your punishment will be more severe next time, are we clear?” 

Another threat.

The temptation to rebel was almost too strong. She had nothing to lose. Everything told her to fight-- but a small part of her whispered: pick your battles. Over the last year-and-a-bit her parents had picked their battles carefully, it's how they'd made it so long. Until now, anyway. Merula held back and nodded, “yes.” 

“Very good. Now then…” she made to leave. “I shall be back in a couple days.”

“Wait, what about me?”

“What about you, dear?”

About. They way her aunt had worded it struck clean; a fatal sword stroke. Merula choked on her own retort, the sheer absurdity of the situation swept the rug from under her. She's leaving? She's leaving. That's fine, but… to be all alone like this? The young witch wasn't so indomitable any more and her eyes showed it, and it seemed her aunt was looking for it. Curse her.

“Where will I stay? Who will look after me? Who--”

“I'm not a charity, sweetie. You'll have to stay here. This was your your mother's last safe house. It used to be our parent's home until… Well, never mind that. If you're anything like her, I'm sure you'll be able to take care of yourself. Besides, I've a life to live, and I don't need you pestering me and destroying what little reputation I've scrounged back for the Snyde family.”

Hammer to thumb on a nail, her aunt's words sent dull thuds through her core. Violet eyes stared in disbelief-- not at anything in particular, she was too distraught to focus. Her whole world… shattered in a day. Merula's teeth clenched as she fought back the urge she'd had last night: that dauntless, id-fuelled drive to scream.

This can't be happening. It must still be a dream. That's right, a dream.

The door slammed shut and Merula's aunt was gone.

It definitely wasn't a dream.


	3. Chapter 3

Merula’s eyes snapped open. Today’s the day! She raced out of bed, zoomed down the hall, and frantically banged on the door of her parent’s bedroom.

“Mum, dad! Wake up! Today’s the day!” she squealed with excitement.

The little witch’s cacophony summoned a few errant groans and eventually the door creaked open. Merula’s mother stared whimsically – or as whimsical as sleeplessness allowed – at her child whose smile beamed brighter than the sun. There was no way around it, that damn smile was infectious.

“Come on then,” she finally relented with quick a hair-rustle.

Another giddy squeal escaped from those eleven year-old lips as she practically bounced downstairs for breakfast. 

Today was the day her life began. Classes and magic and creatures-- all of it was within her grasp and just a train ride away. She’d be the best there ever was. She’d promised herself; promised her parents. Smart and beautiful and talented and wicked. Nobody would be better or more powerful than she.

“Eat your breakfast, dear,” her father ushered from behind his Daily Prophet.

Radiating pure joy, the young witch chomped on her raspberry jam spread toast. She heard a chortle and snapped to attention, barely managing to catch a glimpse of her father ducking behind the paper.

“Wha' ar ooo raffing ahht?” Merula asked, mouth stuffed.

“Nothing, Meru. You just... remind me of your mother.”

“Huh?!”

Her mother playfully jabbed at him with the tip of her wand. “Ignore him,” she interrupted, “he’s being silly.”

Merula raised a quizzical eyebrow but thought nothing of it. Time moved so painstakingly slow for her. Every second an hour; every hour a year. Excitement filled her veins. Oh, the possibilities! Quidditch, choir, duelling, potion-making! Aaaaahh! 

But her smile never once faded. From the drive to London to arriving at King’s Cross Station, Merula kept smiling. Her heart raced, eyes widened. The journey of a life time was about to begin. Every step closer to the platform felt heavy, the whites of her knuckles vibrant as Merula pushed her own trolley. She was a big girl after all.

As the brick entrance-way betwixt platforms nine and ten stood before her, the little witch was struck with a deep anxiety. She was nervous and excited. How could she hande being away from her parents? What if something happens to her? Or them? Or, or, or, or...?

“Merula.” The voice was her mother’s. It was calm. It understood. “It’ll be fine, dear. Go on.”

The witch turned, violet eyes welling with tears. Instantly, she clamoured into the arms of her parents and hugged them tightly, desperately.

“I love you, mum. I love you, dad.”

“We know,” her father said warmly. “Now come on, we’ll see you through.”

Reinvigorated, Merula gripped her trolley’s handle and began to march right at the wall. Three pairs of footsteps thundered in her eardrums as the collision came. Then she was out on the other side.

Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters bustled with all kinds of attendants, parents and students. Some robed, others in ordinary clothes. Merula’s anxiety kicked in again as she slowly made her way out onto the platform.

She turned back to her parents. “Mu--?” 

Oh. Right... There was no-one. 

There was never anyone. They were gone. 

Merula’s lip quivered but she held firm, refusing to give her aunt the satisfaction. She could handle this alone; she was a big girl after all.

She pushed forward seemingly determined but utterly lost. The world was expanding beyond her reach right before her eyes. Everywhere she looked there were families seeing off their children and friends greeting one another. No! Don’t think about it! It’s what she wants! You’re stronger than that. You’ll be even stronger, Merula. Better! You promised them, you promised yourself. 

With a deep breath, she moved on.

There were certain people, Merula noticed, – both adults and older students – that her vile glares. Others merely whispered as she went by. ‘Death Eater’. ‘Snyde’. ‘Evil’. It was a legacy too heavy to bare draped across her tiny shoulders like a cloak. It clung to her. Even now, here, there was premeditated hate. They were all like her aunt: judging her before she’d even had a chance to prove herself. To prove that she could be better.

Fine. If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. 

Messy hair, ripped stocking, clunky boots, black nail polish. It was her image. Her shield. Her proof. Merula would take it all and throw it back at their faces. She’d be exactly what they wanted in order to become what she wanted: The Most Powerful Witch.


End file.
